When the Lights Go Out
by StopTalkingAtMe
Summary: After his injection with an experimental vaccine Murphy is the only man known to have survived a zombie bite. Eight of them, in fact. But just because he's immune to the zombie virus doesn't mean the bites won't still kill him, and with his wounds infected and his condition worsening, Hammond and Murphy search for a clinic where he can find treatment. One-shot prequel
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Finally got around to splitting this into 2 parts. All comments are hugely appreciated. Concrit is particularly welcomed.**

* * *

 **When the Lights Go Out**

He was in agony. Every one of his remaining ribs felt like it was screaming and the wounds in his chest burned with every step. He stopped, bent double, gasping for breath, sweaty and feverish under the prison jumpsuit. _Can't take much more of this._

Hammond turned towards him, eyes narrowed. "Damn it, Murphy. Stop screwing around. We don't have time for this. They're coming. You _want_ to get bitten again?"

... _stretched out helpless on the table, the Zs around him, his screams drowning out the sound of their snarls..._

"Why not?" he spat. "It was so much fun the first time."

Hammond scowled, gripped his arm and dragged him on as the first of the Zs rounded the corner of the street. "Come on."

"Can I at least have a gun?"

"No. Come on, or I swear I'll leave you here to get eaten."

Murphy shook him off and followed, glancing fearfully back over his shoulder at the Zs loping towards them. They turned the corner, running towards the entrance of the high school, past a makeshift cordon, an empty guard post. Murphy looked inside as they passed, shaking his head.

 _This isn't right._

They ran up the steps to the main entrance and Hammond set his shoulder to the door, and heaved. They creaked inwards, but only so far. On the other side, a thick chain wrapped multiple times around the handles, held in place by a rusting padlock. Hammond thumped his palm against the door in a fury. " _Shit_."

"They're coming." Murphy glanced at the zombies surging down the street towards them.

... _the straps tight around his wrists, biting into his skin as he struggled, screaming for help..._

He squeezed his eyes shut in terror. "Screw this."

Hammond grabbed him as he turned to run, slammed him up against the wall. "Stay where you are." He shot a look at the Zs surging their way. "Hold the goddamned doors open so I can shoot the lock."

"I can't. My chest hurts too much."

"Do you _want_ to die? Hold. The. Doors. Open."

Murphy scowled at him. As he pushed against the door, he felt this jumpsuit tear away from one of the scabbing wounds. A pain like an open wound doused with lemon juice, a wrenching pain in his chest, a gush of sticky liquid. He cried out in pain. Hammond shot out the lock and reached through, jerking and tugging at the chain. It rattled to the ground and they crashed through, heaving the door shut as the first of the Zs reached them.

Murphy's chest burned as he threw all of his weight against the door, his face contorted with fear and panic. But he could feel his strength slipping; his vision tunnelled away and he knew he was going to black out from the pain. He stumbled backwards, staring at the zombies throwing themselves at the door, leaving streaks of blood on the glass.

"Get the chain back on!"

Murphy blinked at him, looked down at the chain. Then he glanced over his shoulder, towards the empty corridor.

"Murphy," Hammond growled. "It'll be the last thing you ever do, I promise you that. Get the chain back on."

Swallowing, Murphy bent to grab the chain. He hesitated, staring through the glass at the zombies. Ugly bastards, all of them. The stink of them filled his nostrils, sickening him. It was the same sickly aroma of death and rot he could smell seeping out his pores these days. A stench that no amount of soap could ever scrub off. It made him sick.

"Any time now, Murphy!"

His mouth dry, he stepped forward and threaded the chain through the handles, meeting the gaze of one of the Zs outside, a man with dirty reddish hair, three days worth of stubble, milky cataract eyes filled with empty hunger. It snapped at him through the glass with teeth encrusted with flecks of old, dried blood.

He jerked the chain tight, and stumbled backwards, feeling like throwing up again. He hadn't been able to keep anything down for days.

"'Bout goddamned time," Hammond snapped, stepping away from the door.

"Hey, I don't take orders from you." Outside the zombies surged against the doors and it crashed inwards. The chain rattled, slipping free. He flinched. "Will that hold?"

"How the hell should I know?"

"Well, if you hadn't shot out the lock..."

Hammond glared at him. "Would you rather be on the other side of that door?"

 _I'd rather not be here at all._

"Let's find this clinic and get the hell out of here," Hammond said. "Sooner I get rid of you the better."

"The feeling's mutual." He was starting to feel dizzy again. He tugged his jumpsuit away from his neck, felt another scab break free with another sublime little needle of pain so sharp his vision blurred.

They moved away from the door and the hungry Zs, along a long corridor lined with lockers, which had been jimmied open and ransacked, books and papers lying strewn across the corridor. The air smelled of dust and neglect.

 _There's nothing here._

He revised that opinion when they passed the open door to a classroom. Inside all the desks had been dragged to the edges of the room. The middle of the room was stacked high with body bags. _Filled_ body bags, stinking like garbage left out in the sun.

 _Nothing here but the dead._ They stared inside in silence, and then Hammond very carefully closed the door.

"You sure this is the place?" Murphy asked.

"This is where the NSA guy said."

"Well, I'd say his intel is a little out of date." Breathing hard, he put his hand on the wall to steady himself, to keep himself from fainting.

 _Can't take much more of this._

Hammond stopped, holding up his hand. "Hear that?"

Murphy pushed himself away from the wall. "I don't hear a goddamned-"

"Shut up, Murphy. I'm trying to listen."

"Hey, you asked," Murphy muttered under his breath. But he listened. There was something coming, the sound of rapid footsteps coming closer. He started to back away, blood rushing in his ears. "It's a Z."

... _teeth descending. The stark, helpless agony as human teeth grind into his flesh, ripping and tearing_...

Hammond aimed his gun as a figure burst out of a corridor and skidded to a halt, his high tops squeaking on the polished floor. Murphy caught a glimpse of a young man, skinny, mixed race, short dreads crammed beneath a baseball cap. He stared at them, his eyes wide and startled, a backpack slung over his shoulder.

"Stop," Hammond snapped, and then the young man turned on his heel and sprinted away. "Damn it." Hammond chased after him. Murphy hesitated, glancing back, but down the corridor he heard the Zs crashing against the door, the rattling of the chain. He swallowed in fear, and followed Hammond, his lungs rattling with every breath.

 _What the hell did you do to me, Dr Merch?_

He almost hoped Hammond did get him to the CDC. Just so long as Dr Merch was there, and he could make good on his promise to... well, not eat the bitch's brains. But something painful and unpleasant.

He turned the corner and nearly collided with Hammond, who was breathing hard himself. "Lose him, did ya?" Murphy said, once his own wheezing fit had passed.

"Screw you."

"Fast little bastard, whoever he is."

A crash came from back down the corridor, the sound of the zombies breaking through the main entrance. Murphy flinched, started backing away. _How many of them now?_ He could almost smell them already, although he wasn't sure if it was actually them or the stink coming from his own wounds, the rot at the heart of him.

"Come _on_ ," he said to Hammond. The crazy bastard was actually looking back, maybe even thinking about making a stand. With every day that passed, Murphy was starting to think he might actually have to kill the man. He didn't think there was any other way of getting away from him; Hammond watched him too closely. He'd never thought of himself as a potential murderer before, but if there was one person he could happily kill... Actually, no. Scratch that; the person would be Dr Merch. No question about it. But Hammond would be next in line.

The cries of the Zs echoed down the corridor. "Hammond, come on!"

Hammond nodded grimly and they rounded the corner to see the doors to the gym ahead of them. "Here," Hammond said. "If this damn clinic is here, this is where they'll be."

"You sure about that?"

But Hammond was already opening the doors. Over his shoulder, Murphy saw the gym was filled with makeshift camp beds, row after row after row. Sitting on the beds, and standing in the aisles, were Zs. Men and women and children, some ragged and tattered and rotting, some whole and fast and strong, and _all_ of them turning to stare at the open doorway and the two living men.

"Oh _shit!_ " Hammond jerked his gun up as the first of the Zs sprinted towards them. He dropped it with a single shot, but more were coming, and then Murphy turned, saw the Zs from outside charging towards them.

Dizzy with fear and panic, he scrambled backwards, casting a terrified glance over his shoulder in case there were more Zs coming the other way. "Murphy!" Hammond yelled. "Help me with these goddamned doors!"

"Yeah, I don't think so. Sorry."

Murphy fled. He ran down the corridor, and up an empty echoing staircase, his lungs burning with every breath. At the top, he looked frantically left and right, the screeches of the Zs sounding too close, and flung himself down the corridor and into a classroom, slamming the door behind him. He backed away from it, pushing his fingers into his hair, and then shoved a desk in front of the door.

The scrape came from behind him. A cold fist of terror clamped around his heart.

 _They might be alive,_ he thought, closing his eyes. _Oh shit, I hope they're alive._

Slowly, painfully, he turned around, stared helplessly, hopelessly, at the Z lurching towards him, one foot dragging along the floor behind her.

She would have been beautiful once, every post-pubescent boy's fantasy of the perfect teacher, a blonde with an amazing rack, the sort of rack that would have made him stop and look twice in another life, maybe even think about asking her out for a drink. Only now her skin was greying, and the stink of rot rose from her in waves, and all he could think was that she smelled just like him. Whatever ran through her veins, whatever passed for blood in her decrepit system, it was inside him too.

When her lips peeled back from yellowing teeth, he whirled to drag the desk away from the door. But something wrenched in his chest, a sudden overwhelming fire-burst of agony, and his legs crumpled beneath him. Gasping for breath, he caught hold of the desk, his body trembling as he levered himself up and turned to face the Z. He cursed Hammond for not trusting him with a weapon.

"Wait," he said uselessly. As if zombies could be reasoned with.

Only it seemed to work.

She faltered, tilting her head to one side. Her lips twitched and she drew in a rattling breath, her snarl seeming less hungry, more curious. She sniffed, and behind her whited eyes, something flickered.

 _She's not going to kill me,_ he thought, wildly. _I'm gonna be like the king of the zomb-_

And then she came at him. Snarling and snapping her teeth at him, she clawed at his face. He caught hold of her wrists, and the two of them tumbled backwards like lovers falling onto a bed. He landed badly, almost blacked out from the sudden rush of pain, and then she was on top of him, her teeth snapping inches from his cheek, flecking his skin with her saliva. He screamed for Hammond, screamed for help. Wedged his forearm under her throat, trying helplessly to push her off him. But in death, she was unnaturally strong, and he was way past his best, and there was no way he was going to win this fight. She was going to rip his throat out and devour his brains and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

Maybe he should just let her do it.

The door crashed inwards, the desk scraping along the floor making a noise like nails down a chalkboard. Murphy saw Hammond, saw a cold gun barrel resting against the dead woman's temple. He barely had the chance to register one thought – _No! –_ and then Hammond pulled the trigger.

Her brains splattered across the room. She crumpled on top of him, her head resting against his chest like they'd just made love.

 _Sorry,_ he thought, dazed. _I'm so sorry._

And then Hammond was dragging him to his feet and over to the window. Murphy glanced back at the woman, then at the door. They were coming, the others. He could hear them. No way Hammond could kill them all.

 _Hope they rip his goddamned throat out._

Hammond swung a chair, smashing it through the glass. He glanced grimly at the door, jabbing the worst of the shards out of the window frame with the butt of his gun. "Go on," he said. "Jump out."

Murphy stared at the ground far below. "You gotta be kidding. We're on the second floor."

"Do I have to babysit you every step of the way? Jump down or I'll throw you out and drag you the rest of the way if I have to."

Murphy swallowed, hooked one leg over the edge of the window frame. Shrieks echoed down the corridor, and Murphy glanced at the door, his heart beginning to skip. For a moment he was back in another room entirely, strapped to a table, vulnerable and helpless, unable to do anything but watch and scream as the dead men flooded inside. He closed his eyes, and dropped.

He hit the ground hard, crying out in pain as his leg twisting beneath him. He knelt in the flowerbed, felt warm moist soil beneath his hands, breathing hard. Hammond landed beside him, looked up at the window. "Let's go."

"I can't..."

" _Murphy!_ "

He reached for the wall. Felt rough brick beneath his fingers. He felt light-headed as he pushed himself up, almost toppled straight over again with pain and exhaustion. And now his leg was hurting too. Every inch of his body screamed with protest, but Hammond grabbed him, forcing him on and around the edge of the building.

Was he ever going to get a chance to rest?

"Damn that useless NSA guy," Hammond muttered. "Yet another lead that doesn't pan out. I'm getting sick of this. And _you_." He slammed Murphy against the wall. "You were going to leave me, you son of a bitch."

"I don't owe you a goddamn thing, Hammond."

Hammond's eyes narrowed. "I got you out of that prison, didn't I? At the expense of my men."

"You were after Dr Merch, not me. And don't think I've forgotten how you stood by and watched while that Dr Mengler injected me with poison. How's the air up on that moral high ground of yours? Thin, I'll bet."

Hammond slammed him into the wall again. Something dislodged in Murphy's chest. "You're alive because of that vaccine."

"And don't say I'm not _grateful,_ " Murphy snarled past the sensation of something caught in his throat.

"You—"

Hammond drew back, as Murphy hacked up a wad of sputum that tasted of blood and something sour. When he spat it out, it slapped wetly against the floor, a clump of clotted black matter. His body spasmed, and a wave of dizziness crashed over him.

"You're disgusting."

"Hey, I didn't ask for this." Murphy wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Can I get some water?"

"You really think I'd let you drink out of my water bottle? After _that_? Screw you, Murphy. Where's yours?"

"Lost it."

Someone screamed. Immediately Hammond was turning away, raising his gun. The young man from earlier hurtled by, a group of Zs close behind, loping like wolves. Hammond advanced, firing his gun. Dropped two of the Zs with head shots. Another swung towards them, snarling, and Murphy plastered himself against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut.

The young man glanced desperately towards them, and then the Z behind him grabbed his backpack. He screamed, scrabbling at the straps, trying to fling it off him. One foot hooked around the other and he tripped, sprawling on the asphalt. The Zs fell on top of him, tearing at the pack. His helpless screams rose about the sound of their snarls, and Murphy pressed his hands over his ears.

More shots rang out, then silence. Murphy opened his eyes, risked a cautious peep around the side of the building. The Zs were dead. The young man had rolled onto his back and was staring in disbelief at their bodies and at Hammond advancing. He scrambled to his feet, not seeming to notice the way Hammond kept the gun trained in his direction. When he spoke, his voice was high with fear and panic. "You let them out? What the hell, man? Why'd you let 'em out?"

"I just saved your life," Hammond said. He sounded pissed.

"Wouldn'ta been in danger in the first place if it wasn't for you," the kid retorted. Hammond's stance shifted just slightly, and the expression on the kid's face turned to fear. He held his hands up. "Hey, I didn't mean nothin' by it, man."

"Get out here, Murphy," Hammond yelled over his shoulder.

Reluctantly, Murphy, who'd been thinking about making a run for it again, stepped out from the edge of the building. The kid glanced at him, then did an almost comical double-take, eyes widening as he took in Murphy's blood-stained prison jumpsuit.

"What happened to you? You get bit?"

"He's still alive, isn't he?" Hammond snapped.

"Yeah, but... He don't look well, man."

"He's not," Hammond said. "He's a long way from well. Which is why I need to get him to a clinic and fast. My contact said there was one here, but so far all we've found is Zs. You know something about that?"

"Uh..." The kid shifted his weight from foot to foot, his gaze darting from Hammond to his gun to Murphy. And then to the pile of dead Zs. "It got relocated. 'Bout two weeks back? One of the refugees had a heart attack in the night, man. Died in his sleep. That's what they say. What a way to go in the middle of a zombie apoc—"

Hammond rolled his eyes. "The clinic?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Sorry. Always talk when I get nervous. Uh, any chance you could maybe point that gun somewhere— Okay, _okay._ " The kid swallowed, glanced at the Zs again. "Only it's not much of a clinic any more so don't go expecting too much. They've still got a nurse, but she's not exactly Mary Sunshine... And she's got next to no equipment or drugs or anything. That's why I'm here. Trying to pick up supplies." He gestures to the backpack. "Drugs and shit. Doin' my civic duty. 'Cause we got to look out for each other in this day and—"

Hammond pinched the bridge of his nose. "The clinic."

"Yeah, okay. I guess you saved my life and all, so... yeah." The kid picked up his pack and slung it over his shoulder. "We gotta be quick though. Stay close. Wouldn't want to lose ya."

"Yeah, right. Keep up, Murphy."

They followed the kid through the streets and down an alleyway, past a chicane of dumpsters and to a boarded up door. The kid pulled back some loose boards and squeezed through the gap. Murphy bent double, hacking up another clump of matter, which he spat into his hand – a black fleshy lump, shot through with vivid crimson streaks. He grunted in disgust, and flicked the lump onto the ground, before wiping his hand on his jumpsuit.

 _Hammond's right,_ he thought. _I am disgusting._

"Damn it, Murphy," Hammond said. "You'd better not be faking this."

He straightened up. "Do I look like I'm faking? I'm dying, you son of a bitch."

"I don't have time for this. If that kid runs again... Get through that door."

Murphy bared his teeth in a rictus grim. "You first." Only then from the street, he heard the shrieks of Zs and he ducked quickly, pushing aside the planks. He dragged himself through, gasping at the pain shooting through the bite wounds in his chest. It took him a moment to recover, and he stood up as Hammond struggled through. They were in a restaurant kitchen, stainless steel work surfaces covered in a layer of dust and grease. The kid was waiting for them.

"What is this place?" Hammond asked. "Restaurant?"

The kid shook his head. "Hotel. Group of us holed up here after the refugee centre fell. Boarded up the entrances and the windows. There's no way in or out except for that door."

"Sounds like a death trap," Hammond said.

Murphy rolled his eyes. "Well, aren't you Mr Brightside?" To the kid he said, "This hotel got a bar?"

"It used to."

"Drunk dry?"

"As the Sahara. Sorry. But there's an emergency generator so there's like electricity and shit. Even running water, although we gotta boil it. The generator's kinda old though. It's always cutting out. Drives Claire batshit. It's actually sort of funny, as long as she's not aiming it at you."

The lobby had probably seen better days even before the turn. The carpet was a dusty, faded burgundy, worn and threadbare, and the air had a stale, unwholesome smell, of must and mildew and decay. The main entrance had been boarded up with a table, and light filtered through the gaps, making dust motes dance like fireflies.

The kid crossed to the elevator, jabbed the button a couple of times. "I hate this bit," he said. "The rule is you never leave it on the first floor. Just in case, y'know. But I hate waiting for it. It's so freaking slow. I keep thinkin'..." He trailed off, glancing at the door.

"Have I mentioned that I'm claustrophobic?" Murphy said as the bell dinged and the doors slid open. He was starting to feel faint again, alternating hot and cold. He could feel a slick puddle of sweat rapidly cooling in the small of his back.

"Get in there," Hammond said, pushing him inside. "I swear, Murphy. I am getting so sick of your whining."

"And here I thought we were getting on so well." He saw himself reflected in the mirrored wall of the elevator, blanched and red-eyed, his hair falling in a greasy mess over his face. He looked like a tattered scarecrow in a prison jumpsuit.

 _Christ, I look like I'm already dead._


	2. Chapter 2

At least the elevator was bigger than he'd anticipated. The kid pressed the button for the third floor, and the elevator shook and juddered, wheezing worse than Murphy's lungs as it carried the three of them upward. He stared at the ceiling, at the dirty light, the blackened bodies of flies caught in the glass.

 _What a shit-hole._ It almost made prison feel luxurious.

The elevator reached the third floor, the doors opened, and he found himself looking straight into the muzzle of a gun, held by a wolfish man, lean and tough in a leather jacket, with shaggy black hair and a straggly beard. "Who the fuck are you?" he asked. His accent was British. London, Murphy thought. Hammond went for his weapon, and the man jerked the gun towards him. "Yeah. Wouldn't do that, mate." Then he glanced at Murphy. "Jesus, what happened to you? Something bite you?"

"No," Murphy managed. Something weird was happening to his vision. The man seemed to be stretching away from him, vanishing down the corridor. "I—"

"They're okay, Jon," the kid said. "They saved my life. Kinda."

"This man needs medical attention," Hammond said. "I was told there was a clinic here."

"Oh. Were you?" Jon scowled at the kid. "I don't need three guesses to know what twat told you that. Well, you were told wrong. There's no clinic here. So you can get back in that lift and toddle off to wherever the hell it is you came from."

"Oh, for God's sake." An angry female voice came from down the corridor. "If you're going to stand around comparing your cocks can you do it a bit quieter please?"

"Jesus." Jon clenched his jaw. "You'd better have found that bitch some cigarettes, Mickey," he hissed to the kid. "She's been getting on my tits all day."

Murphy's vision blurred. The sound of blood roared in his ears, and his legs crumpled beneath him. He collapsed, distantly heard Hammond swearing and the man called Jon demanding to know what was wrong.

And then a woman was kneeling over him, peeling back his eyelids none too gently. She stared at him, her gaze hard and angry. "What the hell happened to you?" she said, flatly.

"I..."

"Rhetorical question. I don't give a shit."

Jon stared over her shoulder, his eyes widening. "Jesus. He has been bitten. You lying bastard."

"Wait!" Hammond interrupted. "You're right. But it's not how it seems. This man volunteered to test an experimental vaccine for the ZN1 virus. I've been tasked with delivering him to the CDC, so that the antibodies in his blood can be harvested in order to create a vaccine. He's immune to zombie bites. Probably the only human being alive who is."

"Not being funny, mate," Jon said, "but he doesn't look all that immune to me."

"Some kind of... reaction to the vaccine. He needs medical attention. Which is why we're here."

"And I told you," Jon said. "There is no clinic."

The woman rolled her eyes. "Okay, that's enough!" She turned to Hammond. " _You_. Help me get him into the bedroom."

"No, no, no." Jon was shaking his head as Hammond bent to help her lift Murphy up. "We're not doing this any more, Claire."

"Oh?" She pulled her lips back in something that wasn't quite a smile. "Well, in that case you won't be needing me, will you? So shall I just 'toddle along' too then?"

Jon relented, holstering the gun. He ushered them down the corridor with a sarcastic flourish of his hands.

Murphy heard her grunt, "Dick," under her breath, and then she was turning her head over her shoulder. "Mickey, did you get me any cigarettes?"

"Um... yeah. Well, kinda. I could only find half a pack. And they're menthols. Sorry."

"Frigging menthols," she muttered under her breath. "Frigging end of the world." Then to the kid, "They'll have to do, I suppose."

They carried Murphy into one of the bedrooms, laid him on a cheap double bed with squeaky springs. His vision clearing, he stared up at a water mark on the ceiling that resembled a map of Africa, and then he turned his head, surveyed the rest of the room. A dusty TV, stained carpet, ugly tartan curtains hanging from a pole that had been pulled away from the wall. Murphy's gaze glanced off his reflection in the mirror, and down to towards the battered mini bar beneath the dresser.

 _Maybe. If he's lucky..._

Then the woman passed by the bed and he looked at her instead. Not that she was much to look at. Flat-chested. Dressed down in jeans and a t-shirt, her black hair ragged and choppy, caught back in a severe ponytail. She glanced at him, her gaze sweeping over him in turn, taking in his prison jumpsuit, torn and bloodstained. Her lips pressed together and she reached into the drawer, pulled out a large kitchen knife which she set on the bedside table. "In case he turns."

"He won't turn," Hammond said.

She gave him a hard look, then crossed to the door. "Mickey, where's my cigarettes?"

"Here." The kid handed her a packet, and a bag. "Got some drugs too."

"Antibiotics?"

"Yeah. And some painkillers."

"Strong ones?"

The kid shook his head. "Sorry."

"Don't worry. We'll do what we can. Go on, get lost." As the kid vanished, she turned to Hammond and jerked her head to the door. "You too. Out."

"I'm not leaving him."

"You are if you want me to treat him."

When Hammond shook his head, she shrugged, dumped the bag of drugs on the dresser. "Okey dokey." And dropped into the easy chair, raising a cloud of dust. She shook a cigarette out of the pack and lit it, took a long, lazy drag, and blew out a series of smoke rings as if she had all the time in the world. Then she stretched out her legs with a lazy catlike yawn.

Hammond stared at her. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Um..." She stared at the cigarette in her hand. "I think it's called smoking a cigarette. Yeah, pretty sure that's what I'm doing."

"Help him. Please."

She seemed to think about it for a moment, then shrugged. "No."

"What the hell do you mean, 'no'?"

She sighed. "Yeah, I'm at a loss. I could try to break it down into words of one syllable for you, but I got nothin'." Murphy chuckled, and Hammond glowered at him. The woman took another drag. "So. Let me repeat myself. _No_. You want me to treat him, then you get the hell out of this room. Your choice, soldier."

"Hammond." Murphy lifted himself up onto his elbows, dropped back down as something spasmed in his chest. "Do as she says. She's not bluffing."

Her gaze flicked towards him, then away, as if she genuinely didn't give a damn whether he lived or died.

Hammond swore, pointed his finger at the woman. "If he dies—" He broke off, shaking his head. "Just... It is imperative that he doesn't die."

"Close the door on your way out," she called after him. He slammed it. She stayed on the chair for a few moments, smoking her cigarette and staring at Murphy. "You smoke?"

"Occasionally."

She grunted, and stood up, blowing out a long plume of smoke. "Want one? I wouldn't usually share, but I frigging hate menthols."

He nodded and she shook out a cigarette, placed it between his lips. Lit it. He took a drag, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs. Then he hacked, coughing up sputum. She watched him until he recovered, ribs aching.

"It true what army boy was saying? About the bites?"

He took another drag, this one a little smoother. "Actually, it is." He spread his hands. "You're looking at the saviour of the human race."

"Do you really think the human race is worth saving?"

He paused, staring at her. "What kind of a goddamned nurse are you, anyway?"

"A really shitty one. Truth is, I don't give a damn if you live or die. Just so's you know."

"Thanks for the warning, sweetheart. You always such a bitch?"

"Since the turn? Yes." She took a last drag on her cigarette and stubbed it out in an overflowing ashtray. Then she fiddled with the box, flipping it open to study the remaining cigarettes inside. "I didn't used to be. Just so's you know."

"Yeah right."

"You always such a dick?"

"Yes. And I've been a dick since _before_ the turn. _Just so's you know_."

The ghost of a smile – a real smile – flitted across her lips. Then she turned away, throwing the packet of cigarettes onto the dresser. Murphy watched her face as she rummaged through the bag of drugs, then shoved it aside. When she swung back towards him her face was hard again. Almost angry. "Finished?"

He nodded, stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray she held out for him. She knelt on the bed beside him, her hair falling over her face. She unbuttoned the jumpsuit, peeling it away from the ragged skin around the bites, her gaze darting towards his face as he drew in a sharp breath at the sharp stabbing sting as the fabric tore from his skin. "That hurt?"

"No," he said, through gritted teeth. "It feels like the pitter patter of raindrops on a summer's day."

She didn't react, only stared at the t-shirt underneath, the white cotton ragged and stained with seeping blood and pus. "Hold on." She slipped off the bed and pulled a pair of scissors from the dresser. She cut up through the fabric at the side, avoiding the worst of the wounds, and then she swivelled the scissors, cutting up towards his neck. She touched his chin gently, moved his head aside, but he still felt the cold kiss of metal against his neck.

 _She could pike me now,_ he thought, staring up at her impassive face. _If she wanted to._

She drew in a breath, set the scissors aside. "Okay," she said. "I'm not going to lie to you. This is gonna hurt like a son-of-a-bitch."

He closed his eyes. "It already hurts like a son-of-a-bitch."

"Yeah? Well, it's about to get a whole lot worse."

"Nice bedside manner you got there, sweetheart"

"Told you I was a shitty nurse."

Now it was his turn to almost smile. And then she was peeling back the t-shirt fabric from his chest, and he wasn't smiling any more; he was screaming, at the worst pain he'd felt since the zombies swarmed him. A ripping, tearing, stinging sensation, and he was sobbing, screaming with an agony so intense he thought he was going to pass out.

And then it ebbed, leaving him weeping in its wake. When he opened his eyes, she was the first thing he saw. Staring down at the open wounds in his chest. She met his gaze, her eyes softening for the first time. "What the hell did they do to you?"

"Bit me eight times."

"I wasn't talking about the Zs."

"Don't." He dropped his head back on the pillow. "Don't look at me like I'm something to be pitied. I don't want your _pity._ Clean me up and let me get the hell out of this flea pit so I never have to see your face again."

She drew back, her eyes hardening again. "All right," she said coldly. "That's the way you want it?"

"That's the way I want it."

"You really are a dick."

"Right back atcha, sweetheart."

"What's the matter? Didn't your mommy—" She broke off at a hammering on the door. Eyes narrowed, she crossed over, peered through the peep-hole. "Wonderful. It's your friend."

"He's not my friend."

"No kidding." She half-turned towards him, pointing at her face. "This is my surprised face."

"Funny," he growled. "Because it looks a lot like your resting bitch face."

And again, he thought he saw that half-smile cross her face again before she turned back to the door and jerked it open. "What do you want?"

"What the hell's going on in there?" Hammond demanded.

She waved a hand towards the bed. "Take a look. He's still alive. I haven't piked him yet, although I've been tempted, believe me. He's in a bad way. The bites are infected, and I can feel the heat of his fever from here."

"The man's immune to zombie bites."

"To the ZN1 virus? Maybe, but do you know how many other pathogens are present in a human bite mark? What the _hell_ were you thinking leaving it this long to get him cleaned up? Now get out and let me do my frigging job." She slammed the door in his face, turned away from the door, breathing hard. "Goddamn soldiers."

"You don't like men in uniform?"

She turned an angry look on him, her eyes glittering and dark. "I don't like men with _guns_."

He fell silent, staring at the reflection of himself in the mirror. Stretched out on top of the bed, his chest a patchwork bloodbath. "Were you telling the truth? Could I still die?"

"I've no frigging clue. Probably. How do you feel?"

"Like I got bit eight times. How do you think I feel?"

She shrugged, crossed to the window. "It's getting dark. We'd better get started." She drew the curtains, then felt her way back to the light switch. When she turned it on, the room filled with a sickly orange light, courtesy of the dirty bulb. It gave her a sallow cast, made her eyes look sunken.

Murphy coughed wheezily, fighting to clear his airways. Too much dust in the air.

"Want some water?"

He shrugged, sat up a little as she opened the mini bar. He strained to see what else was inside, caught sight of a couple of bottles, and then she was closing it again, pouring him a glass of water. She knelt on the bed, brought it to his lips and he sucked at it, greedily. "Slowly, slowly," she murmured.

"I know how to drink." He snatched the glass from her, managed to slop it over his chin. "Damn it."

"Here." She passed him a handful of pills. "Some painkillers should help."

"You got nothin' stronger?"

She shook her head. "You're lucky we've got this much. Believe me if I had anything like morphine or oxy left I'd be dosing you up. You're a real asshole sober."

He grunted, knocked the pills back with a gulp of water. They threatened to stick in his throat rather than slip down, and he almost retched, forced them down with another mouthful of water.

She placed her hand on his shoulder, and took the glass from him. "Good. You ready to get started?"

"You're not my type, princess."

She didn't reply, only rolled her eyes. And in the dirty light of the room, she started to clean his wounds. Murphy laid back, gritted his teeth against the pain. At first, he tried closing his eyes, but that only meant he was back there, in the prison, laid out on the table like a sacrifice in a ceremonial orange jumpsuit. Zombies at the door. So instead, he watched her impassive face, searching for any crack, any sign of disgust at the ragged wounds in his chest. Her touch was neither rough nor gentle as she worked, and she didn't look at him, didn't meet his eyes. It was the first time a living woman had touched him since his incarceration, and he felt the first stirrings of a hard-on pressing against his jumpsuit. If she noticed, she didn't let on.

She only paused when the light flickered, threatening to plunge them into darkness. She rolled her eyes at it, glared at the bulb, and it recovered. She carried on, rubbed antiseptic cream into the bites, dressed his wounds with sterile bandages.

Finally she sat back, still not meeting his gaze. "That's the best I can do for now," she said, quietly. "When's the last time you ate something?"

He shook his head. "Not since I was bit. Can't keep anything down."

"You need to eat."

"Thanks, Mom."

She stood up abruptly and left the room without a word, kicking a wedge under the door to stop it closing behind her. Murphy lay still for a long few minutes, watching the corridor, wondering if she was going to come back. Finally, he levered his body off the bed, bracing himself for a wave of pain, but the painkillers seemed to be kicking in. Either that, or the bitch had actually done him some good.

He limped to the mini-fridge and opened it, swept his gaze over the unpromising contents. A plastic bottle of what looked like water had been pushed to the back, half-hidden behind everything else. He pulled it out and sniffed the contests.

 _Vodka._ He knew it; she was just the sort to have a secret stash.

He took a swig, then another.

"Seriously?" She was standing in the doorway, a bundle of clothes in her arms. "I'm away for five minutes and already you're stealing my booze? Jesus."

He took another swig. "Hey, that's the kind of guy I am. I like to share." Then he hesitated, offered her the bottle.

"You could just have asked, you know."

Footsteps in the corridor, and Hammond appeared in the doorway, staring at Murphy. "He's up then. When can we move on?"

"Not for a few days at least," she said, wearily, and when Hammond started to protest she held up her hand to forestall him. "His dressings will need changing—"

"I can do that."

"Right," she snapped. "Because you were doing such a sterling job of taking care of him before you got here."

"Hey, we were out in the field, lady. Not easy changing bandages when there's a horde of Zs on your ass. Safe here in your luxury hotel. When was the last time you were out there?"

"Oh, it's been a while. But you met Mickey at the school, right? Did you go in? See the gym? Well, I was there when it happened. When that man turned. I woke up right in the middle of the room, watching as everyone went Z around me. _Everyone._ And I wasn't lucky enough to have a _gun_. So yeah. I do know what it's like out there. A bit." She pointed at Murphy. "If that vodka-stealing asshole ready is the saviour of humanity, are you really going to risk him surviving the ZN1 virus only to die of sepsis? Or MRSA? Or necrotising fascitis?"

"All right, all right. You got two days."

She smiled, a hard angry smile. "I got as long as it takes, soldier. I don't care if he lives or dies, remember. But I thought you did."

Hammond left, muttering something under his breath. She kicked the wedge free, closing the door. As she turned away, Murphy thought he saw something glinting in her eyes, and then she was turning back towards him, her eyes hard and dangerous. "Give me that." She snatched the vodka from him and threw the bundle of clothes at him. "Get dressed."

"You throwing me out?"

"No, I'm giving you clean clothes. Unless you want to go on wearing that filthy jumpsuit."

He stared hard at her, eyes narrowed, then started to undress. She turned away as the jumpsuit puddled around his ankles. "I meant in the bathroom. _Jesus."_

"You're a nurse, aren't you? Nothing you haven't seen before."

"Nothing I particularly want to see, either." But in the mirror he saw her eyes dart towards his reflection, and he flashed her a cold grin, before pulling on the new clothes – a pair of boxers, some dark jeans and a black sweater. Ill-fitting but still a damn sight more comfortable than the jumpsuit.

She poured two glasses of vodka and passed him one, shaking her head. "Drinking from the bottle like some kind of _animal_." He wadded up the jumpsuit and flung it in the corner. He wished he could burn it.

"Nowhere for you to go anyway," she said. "All the other rooms are full. I'm lucky to have a room to myself. Most of the time."

"Must be your charming personality."

She shot him a humourless smile, then jerked her head at the crumpled jumpsuit. "So what did you do?"

He sat down, drank some vodka, leaned his head against the wall. "I'm a mass murderer."

"You're also a terrible liar," she said, sitting down on the other bed.

"Well, go on then, sweetheart. You tell me what I did."

She tilted her head. "I'd have you pegged for some sort of white collar crime. Grifting, maybe. Or tax fraud."

"Close. It was postal fraud."

She spread her hands in an elegant gesture. "What can I say? It's a gift." She sipped her vodka, then glanced at him again. "You really volunteer to test the vaccine?"

"What do you think?"

"I think you're very civic-minded for a criminal."

He laughed, saw that shadow of a faint smile cross her face again. "Not me, sweetheart. I was volunteered by the president herself. And I sincerely hope that bitch is rotting in hell. So... that civic-minded enough for ya?" She shrugged. And then it was his turn to ask a question. "Was that true what you told Hammond? About being in the gym?"

She took a breath, turned her gaze away from him. "Yeah."

"You lose anybody?"

"Only _everyone_. You got kids?"

He shook his head. "You?"

"I did." She knocked back the rest of the vodka in one gulp. He watched her throat flex as she swallowed, watched the way she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth afterwards, like she was either going to vomit or cry and didn't know which. "They were in the gym as well."

"Ah." He grimaced, not knowing what to say. "Sorry." She shrugged, standing up. He held his glass out for another vodka. More generous this time. "What about a husband?"

"Why do you want to know?" She fixed her bitter gaze on him. "What, you think we're having a moment here? You think this is our meet-cute and we'll laugh about it later? Something to tell the grandchildren about after you've saved the world?"

"Hey, I'm just trying to make conversation."

"Yeah, and it's a fricking delight. Nothing I love more than telling some zombie chew toy all about how my family died."

"Screw you, princess."

"Right back atcha, dickwad."

 _At least she isn't crying,_ he thought.

She swore under her breath as the lights cut out without warning, plunging them into darkness. "That generator is getting worse by the day," she muttered, her voice taut and strained.

"What's the matter? Don't like the dark?"

"I know. I should be grateful, right? At least I can't see your face."

"Ouch." He grinned. "Somebody's got their claws out."

He heard her fumbling about for something, the click of a lighter. The flame flared into life, illuminating her face as she lit another cigarette.

"Can I get one?" he asked. She gave him a hard stare and he rolled his eyes. " _Please_."

"Since you asked so nicely." She handed him one and he put it between his lips, leaned forward to touch it to the flame, his gaze lingering on hers. Twin sparks of fire burned in her eyes.

He took a drag, not leaning back. Not yet. "So you're not afraid to be alone with me?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. "I am a convict, after all." The ember of her cigarette flared and she exhaled smoke in a long, lazy sigh.

"Should I be?"

"You tell me, sweetheart. Since you know me so well. Why aren't you afraid of me?"

"You really want to know?" She drew closer, so close he could smell sweat on her skin. "You're my patient. You're weak and injured." Closer still. He felt her breath hot against his ear, and then the sharp prick of the blade at his throat. "And I'm the one with the _knife_."

"You're forgetting something. You can't kill me. I'm humanity's last hope."

"And you're forgetting something too. I. Don't. Care. Maybe this is our extinction event. Maybe we should just stop fighting it and let it happen."

He closed his hand around her wrist, felt the knife prick just a fraction deeper. "You mean let humanity die?"

"Oh, come on. A misanthrope like you? You can't tell me you're not just the slightest bit tempted."

The lights came back on. They both froze, staring at each other, and then she drew away, jerking her wrist free from his grip. Her cheeks were flushed, and Murphy grinned, took a drag on his cigarette."Good to know I've still got it."

"Oh please. Not if you were the last man alive." But she looked away, hiding a smile.

"Maybe I will be."

She darted a startled, frightened look at him. _There,_ he thought, meeting her gaze. _Not so happy to let humanity die out as you'd like to pretend, are you, sweetheart?_

She looked away again, took several drags on the cigarette in silence, her hand trembling. When she spoke again, her voice was softer. "Did you lose anyone?"

He shook his head. "Not since the world went Z. Unless you count my flawless physique." He jerked the sweater up and gestured at the bandages.

"Chicks dig scars," she said, and he laughed.

"Christ, I hope so," he said, flicking ash onto the carpet. She shot him a look and he rolled his eyes. "What? It's already filthy in here."

"Yeah, and it can always get filthier. I have to live in this shit-hole. Were you raised in a barn? Use the frigging ashtray."

"Whatever you say, princess." He took another drag. "But in answer to your question, no. I haven't lost anyone. Not yet. No one to lose. Guess I was lucky."

"That what you call it?"

"Yes, actually." He met her gaze. "Or do you think that you were the lucky one, getting to watch your kids die?" She flinched and Murphy closed his eyes. "Sorry."

"No. You're right." Her voice was hollow. "I didn't even have the chance to—" There was a thump from the room above. She scowled up at the ceiling. "What the hell are those idiots doing up there?" she muttered to herself.

"You didn't give them mercy," he guessed.

She shook her head slowly. "I barely got out alive. It was—" She broke off at the sound of someone knocking on the door, loud and angry. Her face contorted in rage. "Christ. If that's your bloody friend _again_ —" She jumped up and started towards the door.

"Wait!" A cold fist of terror had clenched around his throat, so tight he could hardly breath. Sweat ran down his spine. "Don't open it."

She looked through the peep-hole, glanced at him. "It's just Mickey."

" _Is it_?"

She looked at him, a contemptuous smile curling her lips, but then she saw the stark fear on his face, and her smile faltered. She took a step back from the door—

And it crashed open. The kid burst inside, a grey tinge to his skin, a bite mark savaged into his neck. Murphy heard the first of the screams from up the corridor, and the woman fell backwards as the kid lurched at her, pushing her up against the dresser. Murphy scrambled backwards, his back pressing against the headboard.

"Help me!" she screamed, but he couldn't make himself move. In his mind, he was there again, unable to fight, unable to do anything other than scream.

He darted a helpless terrified glance at the shattered doorway, then scrambled up, running towards it.

"Please!" she cried out, and he hesitated in the doorway, staring back. He swept his gaze around, spotted the knife on her bed. He groaned, a soft little noise of terror, and then he climbed over the bed, grabbed the knife and all but threw it at her, unwilling to get too close. It clattered onto the dresser, and she grabbed it, forced the blade up under the kid's chin, driving it into his brain. She jerked it free, shoved the kid away.

"He bite you?" he asked.

She shook her head and he grabbed her arm, dragging her out into the corridor. She wrenched herself free and darted back into the bedroom. Murphy ground his teeth. "We don't have time to—"

"Do you want to live or not? You need the antibiotics." She grabbed the bag of medication and followed him to the elevator. "What about your soldier friend?"

"Screw him." He glanced at her, eyes narrowed. "What about your friends?"

"They weren't my friends. Except maybe Mickey." But still she winced at the sound of screaming from down the corridor, someone begging for help. The crash of a Z against a flimsy wooden door. It wouldn't hold for long. The elevator door opened, and Murphy drew back momentarily, just in case there was something inside. There wasn't. He went inside, glancing at her. She was staring back along the corridor, listening to the cries for help, her eyes wide and frightened.

 _Not as tough as she'd been pretending._ He wasn't surprised. She'd been faking it all along, but he hadn't been, and he could be bastard enough for the both of them.

"Come on." He grabbed her, dragged her inside.

"Let go of me!"

He pressed her up against the wall, jabbed the button for the first floor while she struggled against him. "I'm not gonna hurt you."

"Then what the hell are you doing?"

"Saving your life."

The doors slid closed. "That's a joke," she spat. "You were gonna leave me to die back there."

"Well, what did you expect? And I'm still here, aren't I? You go back to help them, you die. Want to die, princess?"

"Yes," she whispered.

He lowered his head, felt her tense up. "I don't believe you," he said into her ear. When he drew back she'd closed her eyes. "Do you want to die?"

"No." She sagged against him.

"See?" He grinned. "I knew we had a moment back there."

"God, you are _such_ an asshole." She placed her hands on his chest and pushed him away, no longer gentle. He winced at the throbbing surge of pain in his ribs, and she grimaced. "I'm sorry. Are you okay?"

"Like you care." But he hesitated, because something was wrong. Something about the way the elevator was juddering, wheezing to a stop. "Wait..." He stared at her. "Is this elevator going _up_?" Panic flared through him as the doors slid open. "Get away from the—"

A Z lurched through the gap. She spun around, jerking up the knife, but it was freshly turned and he could already see she was moving too slowly. She didn't have a chance. The zombie flung its arms around her, sinking its teeth into the exposed flesh of her throat, worrying at it like a terrier with a rat. They spun around with the force of it, the Z driving her back against the wall like he had moments earlier, and her eyes met his over the zombie's shoulder. They were filled with nothing but terror and pain, and then she was bringing the knife up, driving it at an angle into the zombie's skull from beneath.

And the doors were sliding shut again. Too late to shove her out into the corridor to meet the oncoming Zs. If he opened the door again on this floor they'd swarm the elevator. He jabbed at the button for the first floor, then tried to make a grab for the knife as the Z crumpled to the ground. She clawed at her throat, her eyes still on him, coughing up blood.

As the elevator juddered to a halt, the lights went out, plunging him into total darkness.

 _The generator,_ he thought. _Oh shit._

Across the elevator, he could hear her dying. The sound of her choking on her own blood. He closed his eyes, pressing himself against the wall of the elevator in terror as she took her last rattling breath. And then there was nothing but silence and his own panting breath.

 _She's taking a long time to turn,_ he thought. And then, _Maybe she won't turn._

He'd drunk directly from the vodka bottle, hadn't he? Maybe there was something in his saliva, courtesy of the the vaccine, that might stop her turning. God, he hoped so. He wasn't sure he had the strength to pike her. He couldn't even remember her name, but he remembered the way she'd touched him, the quiet confidence of the way her fingers moved across his skin. Not gentle, not rough, but _knowing._

She should have turned by now. He squeezed his eyes shut. The only thing he could hear was his own panting breath. _She's not going to—_

And then a sound from across the elevator. A faint cough. The sound of air being drawn into empty lungs. She'd turned.

He closed his eyes, swallowing a moan of terror as she snarled softly into the darkness. He flinched away, into the farthest corner of the elevator, panic rising inside him.

... _helpless and trapped, world shrinking to nothing but teeth and snarls and agony_...

The knife. He needed to get the knife.

Trembling, he edged along the wall of the elevator, cringing at every scuff of his boots on the floor. She growled, sniffing the air like a bloodhound, and he pictured her swinging her head towards him in the darkness, her dark, bitter eyes now white and empty of anything but hunger.

His foot bumped against the dead Z. He froze, but she didn't seem to have noticed. Achingly slowly, he crouched down, felt along the zombie's body to where the knife jutted from the base of its skull, certain that at any moment she would sink her teeth into his arm. He tried to pull it free, but the knife was stuck fast.

She hissed.

 _Oh Christ oh Christ oh Christ._

He placed his boot on the Z's shoulder, and jerked. The blade caught briefly on bone, slid away with a scraping _snik_ that sounded deafening in the silent darkness. He fell backwards, and before he could recover she was on him, her body pressing against him, her teeth snapping at his throat. He twisted away, drove an elbow into her face. Something snapped.

He rolled on top of her, pinning her to the ground. She bucked underneath him, snarling in rage and fury, scrabbling at his chest with fingers hooked into claws, ripping and tearing at the bite marks she'd cleaned and dressed so carefully in another life.

He screamed in agony. And then he placed his free hand against her forehead, and with his other hand he brought the knife down again and again and again. Until she stopped writhing beneath him. Until he felt wetness on his face and couldn't tell if it was his tears or her blood. Until all the wounds in his chest felt like they'd reopened. Until she was dead. Truly dead.

He dropped the knife, breathing hard. His other hand trailed down from the cold smoothness of her forehead, and he groaned as he felt what he had done, the ruined mess of her face. For the first time, he was glad of the darkness.

"Sorry," he whispered. He fell to the side, leaning back against the wall, his breath hitching. And then somehow he was slumping down, stretching his body alongside hers, his arm wrapping around her, drawing her close.

It was another couple of hours before Hammond found him, levering the doors open with a crowbar. The elevator had stopped between floors, and Hammond's shoulders were on a level with the floor of the elevator. Hammond looked pissed, but as his gaze swept around the interior of the elevator his expression changed. "What the hell happened here? Why are you snuggling up to a corpse? Is that the _nurse_?"

"Don't say a goddamn word." Murphy glanced down at her face, and immediately wished he hadn't. He closed his eyes. "Just get me the hell out of here. I'm never riding in an elevator again."

He squeezed out into the corridor, wincing at a sharp stabbing pain in his right shoulder. Where she'd gouged him. His wounds were going to need redressing, but he couldn't bear the thought of Hammond doing it. Not while he could still feel the trace memory of her fingers moving over his skin. "What was her name?" he asked, his voice hoarse. "Can you remember?"

"How the hell should I know? Christ, this place. I said it was a death-trap." A Z was dragging itself down the corridor towards them. Hammond shot it, then glanced at Murphy, eyes narrowed. "Why do you want to know anyway? You two have a _thing_?"

Murphy scowled at him, said nothing. He reached inside the elevator for the bag of drugs. He couldn't bear to look at the ruined mess of her face so he looked at her hand instead, at her fingers gently curled as if she were only sleeping. At her fingernails, bitten to the quick.

Hammond shrugged. "Well, at least you gave her mercy."

 _No,_ Murphy thought. _I didn't._ He didn't know what that was, what he had done, but it wasn't what he would describe as 'mercy'.

Not at all.

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed it, I would love it if you took the time to leave a comment.**


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